The Fourth Boss
by bezerkoid
Summary: Go through the eyes of crime boss Alex Drew and his experiences during the events of the Dark Knight. Mostly OC. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's notes: No, I'm not dead, just incredibly preoccupied right now. So here is my attempt at inserting a new character into an already-existing scene. My first go at superhero film fanfics…**

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The mobsters sat around the table in varying states of patience. The Chechen, a tall man from Eastern Europe, and Salvatore Maroni, an American man of average height and build sat on one side, surrounded by their henchmen. On the other side was Gambol, a tall and permanently furious African-American man, and like his colleagues, he was guarded by numerous thugs.

Next to Maroni, a tall man calmly rested in his seat, barely seeming to blink. He was dressed relatively casually, wearing a white T-Shirt, leather jacket and jeans, though he could have worn more formal clothes if he wanted to. With green eyes and brown hair, he could have blended into several of Gotham's crowds if it weren't for his criminal record. Like all the other men in this room, he was wanted by the new and zealous District Attorney, the few police officers that didn't take a pile of money as an answer and the infamous caped crusader.

His name was Alex Drew, though a few gave him the nickname of "The Cockney". Born in London, he'd arrived in Gotham and quickly switched to the morally frowned upon side of business. Joining a small-time gang with pathetic hopes, he'd fought his way up the ranks, with the odd murder helping things speed up. Eventually, a plan the leader had concocted proved to be a complete and utter cock-up, and the group had slowly died from ennui after most of their members were slaughtered by Gotham City Police.

After killing the final few members, he'd joined Falcone's crime empire, quickly rising up the ranks here as well with similar methods. When the deal with some men in black and the asylum doctor had been messed up, Drew had appointed himself one of the new crime lords of the city. Nobody in the underworld had challenged him; in fact the other three bosses in this room had struck a pact with him.

The television turned on with a reluctant noise that the Londoner couldn't describe, and a man of Asian heritage appeared on the screen, a man Gambol had called "Lau". He instantly had everyone's attention, but not their good manners.

"What the hell is this?"

"Gentlemen, please."

Silence descended upon the room, and instantly Lau was the most important person there, even though he wasn't at the hideout physically.

"As you are all aware, one of our deposits was stolen. A relatively small amount. Sixty-eight million."

To the average citizen, this would have been enough to never have to work for the rest of your life. To the criminal, however, this wouldn't last as long with the purchasing of firearms, explosives, alcohol, prostitutes and any other items, especially when the money was shared out.

The Chechen blinked, surprised.

"Who's stupid enough to steal from us?"

"I'm told the man who arranged the heist calls himself Joker."

Again, the Chechen was confused.

"Who the hell is that?"

Maroni finally chose to speak up.

"Just some two-bit whack-job who wears a cheap purple suit and make-up. He's not the problem- he's nobody. The problem is our money being tracked by the cops."

Drew nodded in agreement. He'd guessed that the police would try tracking criminal money sooner or later, but most of the others hadn't. Gambol growled like a dog waiting to be unleashed and many of the lower ranks looked like they'd die of shock.

"How did you find out we were being tracked?" The question was aimed at Maroni, but Drew barely turned around. He was focusing on the screen at the same time.

"Wuertz told me. You'd be surprised what suckers for money Loeb's men in uniform are."

Lau cleared his throat, and silence was restored a second time.

"Thanks to Mr. Maroni's well-placed sources we know that police have indeed identified our banks using marked bills and are planning to seize your funds today."

This drew startled reactions from everyone. Gambol hissed louder and Drew compared him to a bull which had been kicked in the genitalia. The Chechen's hands curled into fists and one of Maroni's lieutenants almost choked to death when his drink went down the wrong way.

"Some dealer we've got hooked up with."

Gambol instantly shot the moaner a look full of rage and the criminal shut his mouth before a gun barrel could be put down his throat.

"You promised us safe, clean laund-"

Lau interrupted the Chechen, his certainty they'd be fine carved into his face.

"With the investigation ongoing, none of you can risk hanging on to your own proceeds. And since the enthusiastic new DA has put all my competitors out of business, I'm your only option."

Maroni nodded. Gambol was next to show he understood with a grunt of acknowledgement, following by Chechen and Drew barely moving their heads.

"So what are you proposing?"

"Moving all deposits to one secure location. Not a bank."

Gambol finally opened his mouth. Drew just hoped he'd be sensible.

"Where then?"

"Obviously, nobody can know but me. If the police were to gain leverage over one of you, everyone's money would be at stake."

The Chechen frowned.

"If it's not safe in Gotham, what stops them getting to you?"

Lau smiled, but Drew sensed there was no warmth in it, only smugness.

"As the money is moved I go to Hong Kong. Far from Dent's jurisdiction. And the Chinese will not extradite one of their own."

Drew finally chose to ask a question, but the words died in his throat as false laughter filled the room. A chill ran down his spine and it was as if the winter had just arrived but had started exclusively in this room.

A man had just walked through the door, and he looked like he'd come from hell's worst circus. His face was covered by an uneven mix of red, white and black make-up, and the Londoner suspected it was to enhance his hideous Glasgow smile. He wore a purple jacket and trousers, accompanied by a green shirt. If you had to take a guess, you'd most likely assume his appearance was based upon a clown outfit. Only an idiot would fail to recognise this anomaly of a human being as the Joker. The man who never stopped smiling.

"And I thought my jokes were bad."

Gambol once again reared his vicious head.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have my boy here pull your head off."

The newcomer whipped something out his left pocket, and Maroni spotted it first. It was a pencil, recently sharpened.

"How about a magic trick? I'm going to make this pencil-" he waved with his hands while he spoke, "-disappear."

The tall crime lord refused to be annoyed any further, and he nodded to his bodyguard. The signal to show this clown out of here. The mobster rose out his seat, and fists raised, marched towards the Joker.

And that was when he sidestepped.

In one smooth movement, he moved aside, then grabbed the unfortunate criminal who'd been sent to evict him from the area by the top of his neck, then slammed his head, face first, down onto the table. The pencil remained where it was for a split second until it went through the guard's eye socket and into his brain. He fell limp at once and slid off the table. Something warm squirted a man next to the Chechen and the red stains left on his shirt revealed it to be blood. Not that the others were no good at recognizing it when they saw it.

"Ta daa! It's… gone!"

Drew flinched slightly, Maroni's intake of breath suddenly sped up, Gambol stared and the Chechen looked at the guard's murderer, surprised. All the Joker did was bow mockingly and grin.

"And by the way, the suit wasn't cheap. You should know. You bought it!"

The Joker chuckled. Gambol did not, and would have followed his minion into the same fate if it weren't for the Chechen gesturing for him to sit.

"Sit down."

Gambol shifted uncomfortably, but stayed put.

"I want to hear proposition."

The Joker gave a nod of thanks and stood back up again.

"A year ago, these cops and lawyers wouldn't dare cross any of you. What happened? Did your balls drop off? See, a guy like me-"

"A freak."

Snorts came from the lower ranks, but the Chechen ignored Gambol's remarks, Maroni sighed and Drew rolled his eyes. _Way to get us killed, you idiot._

The Joker continued. "A guy like me… I know why you choose to have your group therapy sessions in broad daylight."

There was silence.

"The Batman. He's shown Gotham your true colours- and Dent's just the beginning."

The Joker raised his finger and pointed at Lau.

"And as for his so-called "plan"-" here he scoffed, "-Batman has _no_ jurisdiction. He'll find him, and when he does, he'll make him squeal."

The Joker smiled at Lau, and the Chinese man shivered.

"I can tell the squealers every time."

The tall Eastern European turned to face the Joker, and opened his mouth to speak.

"What you propose?"

"It's simple. We kill the Batman."

If the Joker expected cheers and applause, he would have been disappointed. Gambol shook his head, most of his thugs jeering. Maroni just stared at the clown, while Drew and some younger lieutenants snorted with laughter or disbelief and the Chechen refused to comment.

"I'm afraid you need to work out your plans better, my smiling friend. Many have tried before you to do the exact same thing. Crane, Falcone, those men we were working with recently. They all failed," said Drew.

"Firstly, I don't have plans. I'm an agent of chaos. Secondly, they were all people with plans, and look where it got them. I'm different."

"If it's so easy, why haven't you done it already?" Maroni enquired.

"Like my mother told me, if you're good at something, never do it for free."

Gambol foolishly risked his neck again with another vulgar question.

"What was she, a whore?"

There was laughter, but again Maroni and Drew were not amused, and the Chechen saw anger on the Joker's face.

"Another comment like that about my mother again, and you'll pay for it."

Immediately, conversations came to a sudden halt.

"And now back to business."

The Chechen continued on, hopeful the deal hadn't been completely lost.

"How much do you want?"

"Half."

The single word was more provoking to the entire mob than anything else the Joker or Lau had done. Maroni, the Chechen and Drew looked at one another, unsure what to say, but Gambol was simply furious. The make-up wearing lunatic rose from his seat and shrugged casually.

"You don't deal with this now, soon Gambol here won't even be able to get a nickel for his grandma-"

"_Enough with the clown!"_

The tall African-American moved forward, now looking like a lion that an idiot had woken up. Immediately, the Joker's right hand pulled at part of his jacket, and it came open, revealing numerous grenades.

"Gambol, sit down before you get us killed!"

The Joker nodded.

"The Londoner's right. Let's not _blow_ things out of proportion."

"You think you can just steal from us and walk away?" Gambol growled.

"He already has," Maroni cut in.

"Yeah!" The Joker was smiling, like the cat which had drunk all the milk.

"I'm putting the word out on the streets- five hundred grand for this clown dead! A million alive so I can teach him some manners first!"

If this was meant to intimidate this odd man, it wasn't working. He shurgged and turned to the others.

"Let me know when you're willing to take this seriously and change your minds."

The Joker strolled out, seemingly happy with what he'd done.

After staring at one another for what felt like eternity, Maroni came to a decision and turned to Lau.

"When can you move the money?"

The Chinese man looked visibly relaxed, and calmed down, smiling.

"I already have. For obvious reasons, I couldn't wait for your permission. Rest assured your money is safe."

And with those last words, the television link to Lau was cut off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's notes: Now I feel I'm alive and kicking. Here comes another chapter, just please note this one required more insertion of original dialogue and so on...**

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Fuicchi's Italian Diner. It was one of the many food outlets of Gotham, virtually all of which were owned by the criminal underworld. This had been Falcone's favourite until he'd ended up in Arkham.

The usual crew were here with their minions, but this time there was something...missing. It was like having a jigsaw with a few of the pieces missing- incomplete.

Maroni sat to one side, dressed in a suit designed exactly the same as most of the others. He was eating some pasta, but he barely seemed to touch it, like if he did he would acquire a fatal illness or an electric shock. The man never had much of an appetite, but this was something new.

The Chechen lay slumped on a comfortable sofa two tables away, munching on noodles and glancing at the television. When he wasn't careful enough, food would fall out his mouth and stain his trousers, custom designed by some of the world's best.

Drew took a seat on another one of the sofas, sitting down and raising his knife to slice into a small cheese and tomato pizza. He rarely ate fast food, but recently the group had decided on a meeting and a meal. Luckily for them, Maroni had a place which was good for both. Fuicchi's was that place. Expensive, with staff that would act unfriendly to new faces and a front which looked unappealing and dirty, nobody would bother trying to come in. If, somehow, they kept going, they'd have discovered a luxurious back room with world-class food.

All three bosses were aware there should have been a fourth.

"Drew, you seen Gambol today?"

The Londoner shook his head.

"Haven't heard from him for two days. When we had our meeting interrupted by our smiling friend."

Both turned to stare at the Chechen, who shrugged.

"The bastard must have chickened out and taken his thugs with him."

Maroni clicked his fingers and one of his aides went and switched the television on. The remote had been damaged and presently the criminals hadn't got around to replacing it. Besides, they weren't keen to spend more than necessary in their current situation. It hissed to life slowly. A couple of mobsters kept talking, and the head criminal hissed for them to shut up.

"_And if true, this poses a grave possibility for a flu pandemic."_

The news reporter signed out on their report of a possible disease, and then the screen went back to the newscaster in the main studio.

"_The body of crime lord Tyreese Gambol has been found in a billiard club on 47__th__ Street. Police were called there by club owners who promptly arrived to discover the boss dead from a sharp object, believed to be a knife, impaling his brain as well as two other bodies, believed to be his men. Items found at the scene, including a broken pool cue and black bag, have been impounded as evidence. The range of murder suspects ranges from his fellow criminal masterminds to a group of copycat vigilantes. No CCTV footage has been found of the murders."_

Drew turned to the Chechen.

"Wonder what happened to his other thugs."

"Probably ran off to save their asses."

Maroni's voice couldn't have been less caring. Before he could talk again, the reporter finished up his mentioning of Gambol's death and moved on to another topic, and all of a sudden the violent mobster was forgotten.

"_The People's Republic of China has recently filed a complaint to the United States that one of its citizens has had their rights violated by their kidnapping in Hong Kong. The man in question, a Mr Jasper Lau, was taken by force from his office in Hong Kong by a man they give vague descriptions of, saying he resembles a kind of nocturnal creature, suspected to be the Batman. Lau was found this morning outside Gotham City Police Department Headquarters. Little else has been revealed. We go live now to interview District Attorney Harvey Dent."_

The screen cut to a blonde-haired and good-looking man. None of these criminals needed to be introduced to him. This was the man who had managed to foil an assassination attempt in court and forced the mob to run with their money as fast as possible. Cameras flashed and dozens of microphones stuck out, each desiring to get the news.

"_The Chinese claim their international rights have been broken, Mr Dent. Would you care to comment?"_

Dent took a deep breath, and then leaned forwards.

"_I don't know about Mister Lau's travel arrangements... but I'm sure glad he's back."_

None of the three mob bosses spoke for what felt like eternity. They all knew what they were thinking.

_He squealed on us._

Chechen broke the frosty silence, and for a second Drew swore his food had gone cold in seconds.

"I put word out. We hire clown. He was right."

He continued chewing on his food. The Londoner angled his head to look at the other two.

"I swear they're getting better at predicting nowadays. Either that or the clown's a bloody mystic."

Maroni nodded in agreement.

"I think our priorities are understood now, right?"

Drew and the Chechen nodded.

"We have to fix real problem. Batman."

"And Lau?"

Drew raised his hand in the thumbs up position.

"I've sorted it out. I've got prison staff notifying me if he ends up in county, and we've got three of my best men in there. If he arrives, he'll wish he had his vocal chords removed before Batman took him back. Maybe we'll actually do that to shut him up forever."

Maroni smiled, then instantly his mood went back to frosty.

Lieutenant Jim Gordon had somehow got to the back of the diner. He was carrying a pair of handcuffs and a handgun lay in his belt. He gestured towards the television.

"Our boy looks good on the tube."

"You sure you want to embarrass me in front of my friends, Lieutenant?"

Gordon smiled.

"Don't worry. They're coming too."

And as he finished speaking, at least four officers rounded the corner, heavily armed. A couple of mobsters went for their guns, but Maroni and Drew signalled for them to drop their weapons. If they started a firefight here, they'd be outgunned, at a disadvantage, and certain to end up dead.

One of the detectives, Stephens, grabbed the Chechen, who was trying to finish his lunch, and dragged the struggling criminal outside. This was immediately followed by the rest of the mob, Maroni and the Londoner included, being led out the restaurant at gunpoint. Drew noticed Chechen had been handcuffed in one of the prison buses and Stevenson was now leading him and the other crime boss to the exact same vehicle. Another cop gestured for them to hold out their arms, and the two reluctantly did so, feeling cold metal snap shut around their wrists. As he was cuffed, Drew raised his middle finger and rotated his hand. He must have pressed a dangerous button because the next thing he knew he landed on his back, grunting.

Stephens grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back onto his feet, and he got into the bus, taking a seat not far from the Chechen. Maroni sat on the other side of him.

Drew looked at the bus interior. It looked as if it was the last of a generation to be replaced. Air conditioning was of mixed competence, with the windows reinforced with bulletproof glass. A few of the seats were stained or smelled of substances he didn't want to imagine. He turned his head to Stephens.

"This is first class accommodation? I'm insulted."

"If this is an insult, wait till you get to county. Thirty years to life, good riddance to you."

Drew shrugged, or at least attempted to.

"Maybe we'll get it, maybe we won't."

With those words, he chose to sleep the rest of the way.

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The bus suddenly jerked and Drew found himself almost going over the rail in front. Now awake, he realised they'd braked.

"Alright, scum, as you've got up, it's time for court."

None of the bosses seemed concerned.

"May Judge Surrillo have no mercy on your souls."

"Aren't you meant to say for her to _have_ mercy?" Maroni cut in.

Stephens shook his head. Drew sighed as the other cop moved forward and uncuffed them one by one. With the guard raising his weapon, the three marched out the bus and into the courtroom.

Inside waited Harvey Dent, his assistant DA, numerous defence lawyers in the pay of the underworld, the other criminals arrested at the diner, and a fairly short lady with black hair and brown eyes. _This must be Surrillo,_ the Chechen thought to himself.

The group went to stand the usual spot. This was procedure they were all familiar with, Maroni in particular. A criminal knew that at one point there would be a court incident in their careers. And for the Chechen and Drew's first time, here it was.

"Salvatore Maroni, Alex Drew, Dimitri Yurin..."

Drew essentially fell asleep during the name-reading. He knew everyone he was standing next to, so why have to listen to something he didn't need telling again?

He stood for what felt like an eternity, then snapped back to attention.

"...Eight-hundred and forty-nine counts of racketeering, two-hundred and forty six counts of fraud, eighty-seven counts of conspiracy to commit murder..."

For some reason, the small woman's voice faltered and stopped. She was still alive, and unhurt, so something must have not made sense. She pulled the offending object away from the piece of paper, and the three spotted a card with the word **Joker** marked on it, but then refocused their attention.

"...How do the defendants plead?"

Loud shouting filled the room like a firework in an echoing tunnel, and Drew could barely hear a thing. The stenographer looked on in confusion, unsure what to do. At that point, Maroni looked across the room.

Dent was smiling at the boss, evidently pleased he'd got this far. The look in the DA's eyes showed how triumphant the man was, and the message was clear.

_Maroni, your time's counting down._


	3. Best Served Hot

**A/N: Something original for Drew to do **_**is**_** going to happen, as I don't have any more scenes where the mob is together (at least not to my knowledge). I hope the results please, though they may not be fully shown in this chapter...**

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From the small apartment he was being forced to call home until his bail ended, Alex Drew sat slumped on a sofa. Unlike normally, he wasn't in peak condition.

The situation had begun to look more hopeless than normal. Half their money had been wasted on a psychopath and now look where it had got them. The Joker had been locked up in a police department, heavily guarded and fooled by Lieutenant Gordon. Three of the thugs under Maroni's command had been assigned to help- all of them had died. Now, the only of the mob leaders with any notable manpower at all after the mass arrests was the Chechen. Drew had seen scenarios like this before in his first gang- but this time it was worse. Not just because of the scale of the failure, but because he was now at the top- and if he was blamed he could expect a bullet in his back very soon.

There had also been some damning proof about who'd killed Gambol.

The media had found evidence of the man's killer yesterday after a thorough police sweep of the club he'd died in. They'd found a Joker card under the billiard table, and that was all they'd needed to make a thorough conclusion. This man was willing to make business with them and kill them off at the same time.

A bottle hung from Drew's hand, half-full, though in his presently pessimistic state he thought it was half-empty. He'd forgotten to shave this morning and his hair was untidier than usual. His shirt was also inside-out, his trousers on the wrong way and his socks were halfway across the room. Not a great state for a crime boss to be in.

The television suddenly switched away from a boring story on Gotham's fishing industry and to something which was of obvious importance.

"_The Assistant District Attorney, Rachel Dawes, has been killed in an explosion. The police are refusing to confirm or deny if she was kidnapped by the recent serial killer known as the Joker. Before her death, she was last seen meeting with District Attorney Harvey Dent, an apparent love interest who had just taken part in a scheme to trap the clown-faced murderer. The DA has been recovered by the Gotham City Police Department and Batman, but has been badly mutilated and is now in Gotham Central. His condition is described as stable. Around the same time, an explosion has occurred at a holding cell, killing several men there, including officers and criminals."_

Then Drew felt his hangover suddenly lift. Maybe things weren't as bad as he'd expected.

It was true Batman was still out and on the streets, but most of their other enemies had been severely crippled. The District Attorney had been scarred both physically and mentally, and he imagined it would be a while before he went back to work. And when he returned, how would Dent cope when grief kept coming back to haunt him? When Drew's trial came, he would have a weapon ready, assuming Dent was still going to trial him. Not only that, but he had no assistant attorney and no judge.

Then there was Gotham Police. They'd taken a major blow from the assassination of Commissioner Loeb, that was obvious. Then to knock them off-balance even further, the Department had taken several casualties in their actions escorting Dent. One destroyed helicopter, two destroyed and three crippled police cars, one SWAT vehicle lost in the bay (though most of the team had made it back to shore) and two other cops killed by gunfire. As a third bout of suffering, they'd lost part of their major building, three more cops, and Lau had been stolen.

The scheme slowly, but surely, trickled into his mind. He wasn't going to make final preparations now, because the people he'd affect had a habit of changing things at the last minute. So he was going to copy them. Best to get started.

Standing up, he sorted his clothing out, put his socks back on, then walked to the laptop he had in the corner of the room.

There was a clown that needed to be told he'd spoiled the punchline.

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The next morning, he stood in a warehouse with his finished delivery. Not bad for two thousand dollars.

He was staring at enough flammable liquid, explosives and other equipment- enough to blow up an entire area. And in some sense, that was what he intended to do.

He realised he'd ordered too many supplies. There was no point using this much on one spot. He sighed.

"At least I'll have spares."

He turned towards the masked man who had supplied the delivery.

"Thank you. This will be sufficient for what I need."

The anonymous man nodded, and held out his hand. Drew realised the man wished for payment, not to shake his hand in gratitude. He pulled a wad of cash from his trouser pockets and handed it to the man. He checked the bills were the amount required, genuine and not counterfeit, then gave his confirmation.

"I take it I can contact you for further supplies?"

"If you've got the money, I'll supply it."

The man's voice was hard to describe. It was hoarse, as if someone had shoved sandpaper and a kazoo down there. He was of an average build, and most of his face was obscured by the balaclava. All the boss could tell was he was Caucasian, but he couldn't see the man's eyes because of the sunglasses covering them.

Drew looked at the purchase again and smiled.

"It's good value considering the price."

"Discount. May I ask what you're going to do with it?"

Drew turned to face his seller. His face showed no emotion, but the supplier could tell his eyes were full of eagerness.

"Revenge, best served hot. And two birds to hit with one stone."

After the man departed, the Londoner picked up his phone and dialled a number. He had other things to arrange as well.

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Watching the television, Drew decided to wait and bide his time until dusk. He suspected that the cops would have guards posted to look after the DA day and night. The Joker would still get in though, of that there was no question.

And that was what he wanted. At dusk, he and his thugs would set the explosives in the last places they'd expect and wait for the Joker to enter the room. And the pair would pay- Dent for everything he'd done and the Joker for betrayal and his failure.

Then the news got his attention.

"_...he's a credible source- an A and M lawyer for a prestigious consultancy. He says he's waited as long as he can for the Batman to do the right thing.."_

Drew listened, calm and collected.

"_...but now he's taking matters into his own hands. We'll be live at five with the true identity of the Batman. Stay with us.."_

And stay he did. The Londoner was worried that if he blinked or coughed for a second, he'd miss the name. At five to five, he called Maroni on his mobile, telling him to watch the news at five, and that he wouldn't be disappointed. He tried with the Chechen as well, but what he heard wasn't what he expected.

"Hello? Drew?"

"Have you got a TV where you are?"

The Chechen sounded busy, briefly muttering a few words in Russian to his thugs.

"Drew, is this going somewhere? I have to discuss business with someone."

"Who?"

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The _Fist of Stalingrad_. A Soviet Union-era Russian cruiser, it had been taken out of service until recently, when its crew had been bribed to give it to Falcone's underworld. Now, the Chechen used it as his personal headquarters.

One billion dollars lay piled in the hold. And like a man who was king of his own little world, which he essentially was, on top of it stood the Joker. At his feet lay Lau, restrained in a straightjacket, and around him lay Joker's and the Chechen's thugs. The Chechen chuckled, putting the phone in his pocket. Back in the apartment, Drew listened as the phone was left on loudspeaker.

"Like I say, not as crazy as you look."

The Joker cackled like a hyena, and slid down the pile of money like a kid sledging down a snowy hill.

"I told you, I'm a man of my word." He paused to look around. "Where are the Italian and the Londoner?"

Chechen shrugged. "More for us. What are you going to be doing with your money, Mr Joker?"

"I'm a man of simple tastes," the Joker croaked back as he took a can of fuel. He removed the cap, turned around and poured it over the money as if splashing lava onto a really bad tabloid paper. "I like gunpowder, dynamite, gasoline..."

The Russian swore in his native language.

"Chyort!"

With that single word, the boss moved forward, fists raised-

Then the Joker spun around, a handgun in his right hand. He grabbed the man with his left and pointed the firearm in his face. Instinctively, the thugs reacted, with the Chechen's men going for their weapons and the Joker's disarming them. The latter's servants advanced and, surprisingly, began drawing on the faces of the crime lord's mob.

"And do you know what they have in common? They're _cheap._"

The cigar was then plucked out the Russian's mouth, and the Joker twirled it around in the air like a magician waves his wand.

"You said you were a man of your word!"

The Joker stared him directly in the face.

"I am. I'm only burning my half."

And with that, the psychopath hurled it at the doused money.

The result was instantaneous. Instantly, the flame developed life of its own, devouring the pile dollar by dollar and threatening to rage out of control.

"All you care about is money," the clown hissed, and there was no mistaking the anger in his voice. "This city deserves a better class of criminals, and I'm going to give it to them. This is _my _city now. Tell your men they work for me."

The Joker crouched down, noticing the two dogs. Like an adult taking sweets from a child, he grabbed their slices of meat and hurled them into the flames. They growled in hunger.

"They won't work for a freak!"

The Joker laughed.

"_Freeeaaaik!"_ He chuckled, imitating the Chechen's accent. At the same time, he picked a knife out his jacket and threw it to a thug, who caught it and spun it around.

"Why don't we cut you into pieces and offer you to your Rottweiler Princes? Let's see how loyal hungry dogs are!"

As he spoke, three thugs grabbed him, two belonging to the Joker, and the other under the now formal employment of Chechen.

"It's not about money. It's about sending a message."

He chuckled and smiled, staring into the flames.

"Everything burns."

He pulled a phone from another of his deep pockets and raised it, dialling. Before he connected, he saw the flames look back at him just as a pair of voices began screaming.

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Horrified by the screaming of Lau and Chechen, Drew hung up. More reason for revenge against the Joker. With extreme difficulty, he forced himself to stare back at the screen.

Reese was now taking calls regarding the subject of whether what he was doing was morally right, which the TV anchor Mike Engel was handling.

"_I want to know how much they're paying you to say who Batman really is."_

Reese shook his head.

"I'm not doing this for money."

The caller then changed.

"Caller, you're on the air."

"_Harvey Dent didn't want us to give in to this maniac. You think you know better than him?"_

"I think he would be speaking differently if he was here right now-"

The anchor cut him off.

"And we all wish him a speedy recovery."

Drew grunted.

"He won't bloody get one when I'm finished."

The anchor had taken a pause for breath, and continued.

"God knows we need him now. We have another caller-"

But before Engel could tell the person on the phone they'd got through to them, they began speaking. Maybe they were watching the TV at the same time. Drew didn't know.

"_Mr Reese, what's more important, one life or one hundred?"_

The voice was that of an old woman. Reese paused, uncertain.

"I guess it would depend on the life."

"_OK then. Let's say it's yours. Is it worth more than the lives of several hundred others?"_

Reese smiled. "Of course not."

"_I'm glad you put it that way."_

Engel was about to announce another caller, but the woman kept going.

"_Because I've put a bomb in one of the city's hospitals. It's going to go off in sixty minutes unless someone kills you."_

The anchor was distressed by this. "Who is this?"

"_Just a concerned citizen-"_

The caller paused, and Drew realised this was not an old woman.

"_- and regular guy."_

The voice had dropped in pitch, and the mobster realised this was the Joker.

"_I had a vision of a world without Batman. The mob ground out a little profit and the police tried to shut them down one block at a time. And it was all so... boring! So I've had a change of heart! I don't want Mr Reese spoiling everything, but why should I have all the fun? Let's give someone else a chance!"_

Reese was twitching and sweating with panic carved onto his face. Drew knew what was coming, and he waited for the axe to fall.

And he wasn't disappointed.

"_If Coleman Reese isn't dead within sixty minutes of me hanging up, then I blow up a hospital. Of course, you could always kill yourself, Mr Reese, but that would be the noble thing to do. And you're a lawyer."_

There was a loud beep as the phone disconnected. Engel sat there, jaw hanging open, speechless.

Drew sat there for thirty seconds before he realised where the clown was headed.

"That bastard is not denying me revenge!" Drew screamed. Angered, he grabbed a revolver, put on some trainers and a tall coat, rushing out the apartment door.


	4. Bad for Your Health

**Author's notes: Thanks for viewing and reviewing, King of Soda. The rest of you, PLEASE R&R.**

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The cold breeze of Gotham's evening wind ruffled up Drew's hair and continually rushed past his cheek. He'd forgotten what it was like to have a shave for a while, and it felt good not to have loads of prickly hair sticking out his face.

Making sure the revolver was concealed well, but not out of reach, he continued on. People out to assassinate Coleman Reese wouldn't get in the way of him, but he was certain police officers would mistake him for an attacker and let their fingers slip out of control. Shoot first, sod the questions.

Rushing along, he saw a police blockade. He wasn't even halfway to the hospital and already Gotham's finest thought congestion was going to protect that sweaty-faced lawyer. He inwardly scoffed, and tilted his hat down to hide part of his face.

"Sir, my wife's in hospital! I need to get her out of there!"

The cop scoffed.

"You won't be in any position to get her out of there, sir! The Commissioner himself is focusing on getting everyone in Gotham General into safety. Now please move away, you're delaying the queue and we need to check the vehicles!"

Reluctantly, the Ford Explorer drove along, the driver scowling.

"Alright, next vehicle!"

And that was when the SUV smashed into the road block. Shortly after this, a gunshot rang out and another policeman fell to the floor, clutching his arm in pain. Realising his window of opportunity wouldn't be open much longer, Drew rushed through the screaming crowds, merging in with them. In the midst of panic, who was going to stop a terrified civilian?

Grateful that his chance had not been wasted, he kept on going, running through as many shortcuts as possible.

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And forty minutes later, he sighed in disbelief.

Another roadblock lay about three hundred metres ahead, and this one was worse. The police manning this one were heavily armed, carrying semi-automatics and for every three normal uniforms, Drew saw a man in SWAT gear, each carrying a Heckler and Koch MP5. Not the firepower to mess with. If this hadn't been bad enough, they were checking the civilians passing as well now. Withdrawing into an alley, he made sure he was out of sight and pulled a wig over his short brown hair, made sure his revolver was as concealed as possible, and stumbled towards the barricades, putting on a faked coughing fit.

"Excuse me sir, could you please refrain from pushing ahead? This is a delicate procedure we've put in place and right now your actions are not helping. Please head to the back of the line."

Sweat ran down Drew's face, and he coughed again, straining his voice as he put on his best American accent.

"If I head to the back of the line, I throw up and possibly spread it further! Do you want me to spread this-"

He stopped just in time to prevent himself saying "bloody". This was America, not Britain or part of the Commonwealth. What kind of American used that swearword? Not many.

Luckily, the police officer didn't seem to notice his hesitance.

"Spread what, sir?"

"Seriously, I feel so screwed up I might explode from overheating! I think I have the god-damn flu, for crying out loud!"

The cop shook his head.

"Calm down. You've probably just got a temperature and cold. Take it easy, have a drink, and just take that coat off. You're probably overheating."

Drew knew this wasn't going to be easy, and he wasn't disappointed by what he'd seen. So, with that in mind, he accepted the bottle he'd been given by the policeman.

Then he tipped forwards, falling on the floor, and when he was sure he was the centre of attention, he opened his mouth.

In the alleyway, he'd also shoved something from a bag into his mouth. It had been dry and stuck inside his mouth, but after the water had almost entered his system, it swirled inside his mouth.

Drew watched as the false vomit he'd been concealing in his mouth went all over the pavement, much to everyone's disgust.

"Oh, God! Get this man out of here!"

Strong hands helped the Londoner to his feet before gesturing him on, and he managed to stumble on until he was out of sight. Then, when he was done, he spat what was left of the vomit out his mouth, left the wig by a lamppost, chuckled, and ran the rest of the way to Gotham General Hospital.

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Passing the scene of a destroyed Lamborghini, Drew noticed Commissioner Gordon standing next to its owner, referred to by Falcone as the Prince of Gotham. With billions of dollars, a company that had branches of varying sizes across the world, his own butler and enough dates to last an entire set of bachelors the rest of their lives, how hard would it be to recognise Bruce Wayne? Tall, with black hair cut relatively short, he could probably have flirted with any girl he wanted. Drew gave a slight chuckle as he remembered that was what the billionaire did anyway.

Unfortunately, this sound got Gordon's attention. Handgun raised, he whirled around, and Drew found himself a target. Wayne also raised his head, and the mob boss somehow had a feeling they knew each other.

"Well, well, well... if it isn't Alex Drew! I thought you were staying in your apartment till the trial?"

Alex shrugged his shoulders.

"Everyone needs fresh air, Commissioner. Contrary to popular belief, I don't spend all my time indoors," the Londoner retorted.

"I need to know, are you after Mr Reese?" The Commissioner tightened his grip on his sidearm.

At that point, the pair locked eyes.

"If I wanted to kill Mr Reese, I wouldn't be standing here talking to you."

Gordon checked the vehicle carrying Mr Reese was safely making its way to a protected area, and then glanced back to where Drew had been, but mysteriously he'd vanished.

"Remind you of anyone?" the Commissioner asked Mr Wayne.

The billionaire shook his head.

"Don't know who you're talking about."

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By the time Alex Drew got there, he was too late.

A figure in a nurse's uniform marched out the hospital, but obviously didn't belong there. With green hair, white and red makeup and a hideous Glasgow smile, who else could it be but the Joker?

If that wasn't bad enough, the hallways were already starting to explode, and a mix of machinery and bricks began to scatter before they abruptly stopped. With Drew watching, he pulled out a second detonator and pressed the button.

Nothing happened. Pressing the button again, there was still no result. Slightly annoyed, but not majorly distracted, the Joker stretched out his hand and slammed his palm into the button repeatedly before glancing across at the ambulance entrance.

And that was when the fireworks really began.

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Barely a dozen or so metres from the hospital, there sat a school bus for Gotham Elementary. On normal days, it would be picking up school sports teams or dropping off a few children to their homes. Today, however, it carried a reporter, his film crew and a couple of officials.

"We're live outside Gotham General, where the explosions have just begun, so we're assuming Mr Reese is still alive and well. Police are refusing to confirm or deny if they got District Attorney Harvey Dent out of the hospital at the present time, and an official statement is expected shortly. Now, we are joined by two Gotham General's medical directors, Doctors Romano and Herman. What can you say about the welfare of your patients?"

The first doctor began addressing the camera, trying his best to avoid the noise outside. Neither of them noticed the hospital's destroyer or man in the big coat.

A few metres from the bus, the Joker spotted Drew and waved.

"Hi!"

The Londoner was infuriated. He'd been beaten to revenge once, and now the clown just planned to get away with it. He ran towards the Joker, but the scarred man was faster and pulled open the bus door, climbing in.

"What the hell?"

The Joker pulled out a knife and hurled it into the camera.

"Sorry folks, but no news is good news." At this, the Joker chuckled as if he was dying from the funniest joke in the world. Pushing his way to the front of the bus, he hurled the driver out the door and took his place, accelerating away.

Drew whipped out his revolver and pulled the trigger six times. The first three shots bounced off the roof of the bus, the fourth smashed a window, with the next one missing completely and the final one obliterated a wing mirror. None of this concerned the bus's driver, and he kept going, laughing all the way.

Angry, the boss realised he'd used all his shots and reluctantly began walking the other direction.

And found a revolver barrel in his face.

"Hello, Drew."

Alex stared, simply unable to believe the sight in front of him. This was something that no man should have the pain of living through, but somehow this man had. Half his hair burned off, parts of his scalp visible, and his eye clearly visible, the Londoner realised who this was.

"Dent?"

"Half of him."

The Londoner made sure he concealed what was probably guilt, though he hadn't been responsible for Dent's maiming and raised the revolver.

"I'm armed too. And I probably know how to use this better than you."

Then the DA lashed out with his revolver, hitting Drew in the stomach, and the man landed on the grass, groaning.

"I counted your shots. Six of them. The clip doesn't hold any more."

"So much for my bluff," Drew muttered, wincing slightly as the barrel pressed into his chest.

"You bribed one of Gordon's men, didn't you?"

Drew only blinked.

"I'm not following..."

A foot slammed into him. He grunted, looking at Harvey Dent's face. The unharmed side was carved in anger, though the second was unreadable. Two men, one perfect, the other evil.

"Bull! You gave some cash to someone, didn't you? Then they took me away!"

Drew then realised that he was talking about his disfiguring and the death of Rachel Dawes.

"I wasn't involved in the operation. When you managed to get Gordon to arrest me and the others at Fuicchi's, I stayed in my apartment until this morning. Most of my thugs were in County, thanks to you."

"Then was it Chechen who smuggled in men to get her killed and me like this?"

The mob boss shook his head, and Dent had finally worked it out via process of elimination.

"Maroni."

A small smile went across Drew's face, but in his eyes there was perhaps a small shred of sympathy or pity.

"That's right."

He rose to stand, only to find Dent holding him by his collar with one hand, dealing with the revolver in the other.

"Not so fast. Your trial's been scheduled early. Fifty-fifty chance, just like she had."

Pushing him to the floor, he pulled a coin out his pocket.

"You live-" Dent hissed, showing an unspoiled side before rotating the coin to show a scarred and burned tails sign, "-you die."

There was a flash as the coin spun in the air before landing in his palm.

"I guess the next judge and DA's will see you in court," Dent muttered, and then, just like that, he was gone.

Disappointed, Drew rushed home.

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**[The next day, noon]**

The phone echoed in the small confines of the apartment, and Drew lazily flopped on the sofa, rubbing his eyes. Turning his head, he grabbed the phone and pulled it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Boss? We've found something you might be interested in."

"Such as?" Drew asked, unsure if this was going to be appealing.

"We may have located the Joker's base of operations. We've spotted a couple of men we've identified as Joker's thugs."

Drew's eyes flew open and for a moment he thought his eyelids would end up at the back of his eye sockets.

"Where were they?"

"Does the Prewitt Building ring a bell?"

Checking the recent papers, Drew finally found what the man was talking about.

_Prized architect of Gotham's great project dies_

_Aled Prewitt, one of Gotham's best architects of recent years, has died of what is believed to be cardiac arrest. It was known he had recently developed a case of Type 1 diabetes and his asthma condition had worsened. His apartment building, named after him, is presently having its fate decided._

"He's there?"

"His thugs are, at least."

Drew realised this could be his chance for a second attempt at things.

"Have you got the explosives ready?"

"We haven't got them, sir. Lennox and Kurmell have them nearby, though."

A new plan instantly began to unravel in his mind.

"Join them and set up as much as you can once they leave. Be as discreet as possible. When you catch first sight of them returning, I'd advise you to get out."

After hearing the confirmation of his thug, the Londoner hung up and began dialling again. There was someone who needed early discharge from their medical facility.


	5. Looking for the Plea

**Author's note: OK, this chapter should hopefully set the rest of the story in motion. If you want to see more of this, this story will likely be ending soon, however it is a prequel to something else. If you want to be notified about it, tell me.**

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"I'm Mike Engel, for Gotham tonight. What does it take to make you people want to join in?"

The anchorman was holding a card he was reading off and sitting in front of a banner which had a message Drew couldn't quite understand. It was probably a very disturbed and twisted death-related pun, and he decided it wasn't worth trying to work out.

"You failed to kill the lawyer… I've got to get you off the bench and into the game. So, here it is."

The mob boss kept his eyes focused on the screen.

"Come nightfall, the city is mine, and anyone left plays by my rules. If you don't want to be in the game, get out now. But the bridge and tunnel crowd are in for a surprise. Aha, aha-"

The camera suddenly rotated, and the screen showed Joker moving the camera while shrieking before it cut back to the news station.

"We now go live to Commissioner Gordon, who will be giving his response to the videotape."

The middle-aged leader of the Police Force desperately asked the reporters to calm.

"One question at a time, please!"

"Why is the National Guard being drawn into this?"

The officer turned to address the reporter.

"I wish to assure the citizens they are only here for a temporary basis to assist in evacuation and finding the Joker. They will leave when those problems are solved."

"That's the question. How are you going to find him?"

"We have our methods being prepared now. However, we're not going to tell you them as we believe the Joker is likely to be watching."

At this point Drew turned the television off. This was getting boring.

Then a thought popped up.

If an evacuation was going to take place, the Narrows was doubtlessly going to be emptied soon. He'd have to force his hand early. He snatched his phone from the shelf nearby and punched in a number.

"It looks like we'll have to accelerate our plans. I was hoping we wouldn't have to move so quickly, but I'm sure they'll be fortifying or evacuating the Narrows and the fact is we need to get him out there now!"

"But sir, how are we going to get across town?"

Drew desperately dug the plan up from his mind.

"Go to 34th Street and enter the last house on the left. You'll find a suitcase containing $2000, passes, a few papers and a pair of uniforms. Head to the Narrows from there. If any cops get in the way, I reckon you'll have a high chance of success bribing them. Just don't try bribing Stephens or Gordon- they'd rather arrest you than take money from the underworld. Go as quick as possible."

Hanging up, Drew could only hope for the best. He left his apartment once again.

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The car raced down the road after its brief stop, barely managing to bypass the crowds all rushing to get aboard the ferries. National Guardsmen raised their rifles, bellowing for the civilians to get back. A Huey helicopter flew over their heads, with a soldier carrying a heavy machine gun sitting with his legs hanging out the vehicle. For a minute the driver and passenger thought they were actually going to fire on the crowd. It would certainly entertain the mentally unstable Joker, if he ever watched such a thing.

Picking up the pace, the vehicle swerved around a corner, causing a brief cry of anger from a small crowd. Twenty or thirty civilians who were part of some neighbourhood watch.

"Hey, slow down! You'll only crash into something!"

"We're cops! Get lost!" came the angry response.

Once the crowd was out of earshot, the pair muttered the worst swearwords they knew.

"You think the boss is gonna pay us extra for this?"

The driver sighed.

"All you think about is money, Frazer. I'll just be grateful if I can get out the Narrows as a free man, not to mention alive."

The passenger shrugged.

"I guess that's a fair point."

In their discussion, neither noticed a National Guardsman crossing the road.

"Hemell, turn the damn car around!"

The driver swore so loud the radio was briefly drowned out, and he barely succeeded in avoiding hitting the military man. Frazer blinked in disbelief.

"You idiot!"

Hemell promptly spat gum out his window before growling, irritated.

"You were the one who had to get your cash-addled brain as your first priority. Besides, I thought you liked the idea of killing a few of those toy soldiers."

"Not if it means I get fifty bullets up my ass."

Both suddenly fell silent as they saw that the Narrows was getting nearer, the vast electrified fences towering over the vehicle. Dogs patrolled the tops of the walls accompanied by their handlers who had semi-automatic pistols in their holsters. Spotlights flashed across the late evening sky and another helicopter flew overhead, thankfully belonging to police this time. The men gasped in surprise.

"Talk about a fortress."

Driving up to the gate, Hemell flashed his pass at the guards, who practically refused to so much as raise an eyebrow. They were probably under Maroni's pay, but even if they weren't, they'd been granted complete entry by a pair of idiots.

Once they got inside the Narrows, all they found were officers pounding their feet on the cold, hard tarmac of the fortified prison island. Looking at the sign, Hemell deduced they'd want to avoid Stonegate- too many police officers would be there. Hopefully he'd be able to drive himself and Frazer to the right area when the signs were badly damaged. Going as fast as possible without avoiding suspicion, the car paced down towards their destination.

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The man sat in the recreation room, clad in his uniform and a straitjacket, enjoying his solitude and watching the evening news. In comparison to what had happened over the past few days, this news broadcast was incredibly boring.

He looked to one side at the mirror which was hiding the observation area, though he doubted he'd need worry about what happened. After numerous false breakdowns confessing untrue things to the men he knew once hiding there, people had been so disgusted and horrified they couldn't bear to listen any more and his one hour of watching news and reading the papers alone was now virtually unobserved.

"_If this is true, any chance of Republican Candidate Theodore Greene being elected is probably going to be nonexistent. And now we return to the report on the war in Afghanistan. Twelve troops belonging to NATO have been wounded in a raid by insurgents in Kabul. The reports are only one of the wounds counts as serious…"_

Here he mentally switched off. This country sent several eighteen-year-olds out to the country every month and yet their seemingly bottomless pit of manpower always needed to dig up more and more all the time. It had practically become routine to announce a death or serious injury in the Western media, and routine quickly became something this man virtually forgot about nowadays.

Outside, he heard talking. That was what he considered a little odd. Not one of the staff members, with the sole and infrequent exception of Doctor Arkham himself, had any remote desire to come within twenty metres near him. So who was it? Cops? A new recruit?

He found out when two men in uniform marched in after a long and extended discussion with the person outside, who marched off for their doubtlessly unpermitted coffee break.

"Can I help you?"

The man tried to turn around as much as the straitjacket permitted, managing to awkwardly adjust his head. He spotted the taller of the two, a man with a broad chest, make sure the coast was clear. Once they were sure nobody could be eavesdropping, the other man leaned forward.

"We're getting you out of here."

The man in the straitjacket heard the British accent clearly, noting it to be out of place.

"Hemell, hurry up! I don't know how long that dumbass is going to be on his coffee break."

"Calm down, Frazer."

Frazer, if this man had guessed correctly, seemed to come from America. It was possible this was a gang with members from both sides of the Atlantic. Then again, he didn't care.

"How do you plan to get me out of here? This is Arkham! And what about my stuff?"

Hemell smiled. He was a bit more patient than his colleague.

"Not a problem. We're dressed as cops and your stuff is in the back of our car. We moved it there ourselves."

"So you'll disguise me as another officer?"

Frazer cursed in disbelief.

"Hell no! They'd recognise you from a mile away, even in a uniform! You're going as you are."

The patient blinked in disbelief.

"If the Joker's taking over Gotham, why would they leave people in Arkham when they pose a severe risk? You're being taken out of the asylum on your own. Special measures. When we get out of there, you don't say a word. Understood?"

He nodded, hoping he'd get a better understanding of this later. He was then promptly dragged out his chair by Frazer, with Hemell taking the lead. _They must be arrested a lot if they can act like a cop,_ the inmate thought.

He then looked ahead as the trio passed the cells of complete psychopaths like the man who'd been in that so-called honour guard. Schiff was his name, or at least that's what they thought. Two cells along was a serial killer and rapist, and towards the end of the corridor a man who enjoyed necrophilia muttered something unintelligible.

They kept going till they reached the car, with the American muttering words and showing forged papers to Doctor Arkham. While the Director remained confused, he seemed to eventually understand and nodded. The three were clear to leave.

The car whizzed down the road, only slowing down to go through the checkpoint. Once that was done, they were out of the Narrows and back in mainland Gotham.

As they kept going past the crowds, the patient finally took the chance to speak up.

"Where are we going?"

Without even turning around, it was Frazer who answered the question.

"The boss wants to discuss business with you."

With his free hand, he switched on his cell phone and dialled to his employer.

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Two miles away and carrying a pair of binoculars, Alex Drew picked up his mobile phone.

"Frazer? You'd better be calling with good news."

There was a long silence that felt like eternity.

"We've got him, sir. Where should we take him?"

Drew wasn't sure how to answer.

"Where they won't expect him."

And with those words, he hung up and waited for Gordon, the snipers and SWAT teams to get into place.

It was almost time for the fireworks.

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**Chapter 5 done, though I must admit this one has been the hardest to write. I'm not going to reveal who Hemell and Frazer took out of Arkham yet, but if you want to guess, feel free. I'll reveal in the next chapter or two, so I'll see you then!**


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